


teen spirit

by serenfire



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Backstory, Gen, small punk Antoine is all i care about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Antoine rode off to his fourth and final foster home, his world turned to hell with twenty gallons of gasoline and a bazooka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	teen spirit

**Author's Note:**

> for triplett week on tumblr (day two - backstory)
> 
> @anyone I know irl: do not read thanks

The day Antoine rode off to his fourth and final foster home, his world turned to hell with twenty gallons of gasoline and a bazooka. 

He was fifteen and “that skinny pretentious black punk kid” according to the nicer hearsay at his former home. 

Whatever agency shipped him around the US year in and out wasn’t paid enough to afford transportation, so he lounged on a stuffy bus from Maryland to the Texan suburbs with headphones in and Blink 182 on the highest volume, one eye open and observing his chaperone on the other side of the aisle, a middle-aged white man in cargo and camo (and seriously, who _wore_ that in the middle of summer?) flipping through files on the orphan. Antoine knew what he would find; last year’s yearbook when he’d gotten his braces off and his teeth were shiny, a factual account of how his only living guardian, his dad, died in a car crash when he was eleven and the shitstorm which ensued of being carted around like luggage and all the stigma associated with being the “foster kid who isn’t a delinquent but isn’t an all-star and is therefore overlooked by everyone.” 

The opening chords of ‘What’s My Age Again?’ echoed in his ears, louder than the quality comfortably allowed for, and from across the aisle, his chaperone (“Call me Garrett,” “Can I call you John?” “ _No_ ”) shut the file with a glower. “Is this the third time through the album?” Garrett groaned. 

Antoine grinned, head rested against the space between the seat and the window, and made a surfer sign he learned the last day at school (but since forgot its meaning). “Keeping track of time,” he said — and he couldn’t _hear_ himself with the music blaring in his ears, per ce, but he assumed Garrett had by the wince in his direction. 

He smirked and closed his eye again. 

*** 

All the bus passengers got off at Antoine’s stop, which he thought was a bit odd, because there were still stops till Frisco. 

Garrett didn’t say a word to Antoine on the way to the house, mostly because he was scribbling his signature on some form with an eagle insignia on the top. When Antoine tried to take a peek (forms on his new family? No one had bothered to give him information except for their names — they were _Smiths_ , for god’s sake) Garrett glared at him over the papers, and Antoine raised his hands in mock surrender and slouched against the seat. Should he open the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket and start smoking just to piss his chaperone off? 

By the time the cab made it down Main Street and to the neighborhood (of two total neighborhoods) of his future residence, Antoine was bored with the town and had started on his Nirvana collection. 

Pulling up to the house, Antoine slipped one headphone behind his ear, so he could hear and converse like a normal person, but still with the escape of music to help him through the fated awkward first encounter. He didn’t do well with first impressions, because he had nothing to prove and everything usually went to shit the first day of school (when he began his “normal human interaction”) when he started layering the eyeliner on thick. 

Garrett led the way past the literal white picket fence and rang the doorbell. The woman who opened the door was a stereotypical Smith — short, athletic, tan (spray tan?) and _white_. 

Good lord, Antoine was surrounded by white people. 

“I’m John,” his chaperone introduced himself (why did he get to be on a first name basis with adults he had known seventeen hours less than his charge?), “and this is Antoine Triplett. You know who he is.” 

The woman smiled condescendingly at Antoine, and simpered something to the effect of “I’m so sorry to hear what happened to your last, er, parents.” 

‘Been a Son’ drowned out the response itching to come out, the impulsive “I didn’t do it!” that he had gained as a reflexive action from all the interrogations with the police. Don’t visibly swallow, they’ll think you’re hiding something. He had _no idea_ his foster family were heroin dealers who messed up the infamous recipe so it started killing off clients, but hell, they was a lot more interesting than his foster family before that. 

Antoine was perfectly fine sticking to his semi-legal cigarettes, thankyouverymuch officer. 

Mrs. Smith ushered Antoine and Garrett into the living room, which was obviously to show off for his chaperone’s and the agency’s benefit, because _everything was hemmed in lace_ , what the _fuck_. 

There he was joined by Mr. Smith and their son Luke, who looked like a carbon copy of his parents but twice as bland, all in collared shirts and button down pants. 

Leather was just fine for Antoine; he didn’t need any of their ‘50s fashion advice. 

They also served him _tea_ and Antoine declined because A: _not_ the fifties, the Boston Tea Party mean anything to these people? but Garrett took a sip and announced, “Vodka,” surprised. 

Antoine snapped to attention, longing after the tea that had been taken away, but Garrett prod on his toe to prevent him from speaking. 

Mrs. Smith’s smile strained. “Always good to celebrate your heritage,” she grimaced. 

Garrett politely excused himself from the room, leaving Antoine with his duffel of clothing and JD Salinger paperbacks, ‘Breed’ screeching in his right ear, to deal with his new _family_. 

Mr. Smith nodded at Antoine’s headphones, half hidden underneath his curls. “Most people our age have problems with youngsters on their Walkmans.” 

“Actually it’s not a —” Antoine was met with a glare so intimidating he stopped in the middle of his response. 

“ _But_ we are not most people. We accept your Walkman, even at this decibel. Is that sandpaper being scratched over the mic?” 

“It’s the drums,” frowned Antoine. Mrs. Smith kept glancing nervously out the door Garrett had gone, and Antoine got the feeling no one really wanted to be in this room, having this conversation. “It’s artistic — you know, where’s your bathroom?” 

Mr. Smith nodded to Luke, who sighed and led Antoine up a floor to the bathroom, which was covered in cement instead of normal tile and contained mainly an old tub, the kind that looks like an elongated porcelain bowl (not to be confused with the toilet). 

Antoine shut and locked the door, and dug the cigarette pack out of his back jean pocket. He leaned against the windowsill, ignoring the chirpy petunia in the plant pot, and hefted the window up. He lit the tube, taking a deep relaxing breath, and blew a perfect circle of smoke in the clear sky. 

The windowsill promptly burst into flames. 

Antoine dropped his lighter in shock, teeth clamping down _hard_ on the cigarette. “What the _fuck_ ,” he screeched. 

Below, where his lighter landed on the lawn, the grass spouted on fire. 

“Hey!” he heard from ground level. From around the corner appeared Garrett, waving a spewing hose in exclamation. The liquid hit the burning patch and the flames grew higher. So — _not water_ , then. “Who set it off? I didn’t give the go order —” His gaze locked with Antoine, who screamed, “I didn’t do it!” and backed up. 

The Smiths burst into the bathroom, kicking down the door and dragging Antoine back against the burning windowsill, holy _shit_. The flaming petunia chirped its condolences at him, and something clicked against Antoine’s temple. 

A gun. 

“What the fuck,” he whimpered again, softer. 

Mr. Smith shouted at Garrett, “If you give the order to light us up now, you’ll kill the kid.” 

Garrett blinked, and looked to his left. From the bushes in that direction of the neighbor’s front lawn (but still within fire hopping distance) people began to emerge, holding an array of weapons — _guns_ — at the window. 

They were Antoine’s fellow bus passengers. 

“You’ll kill an innocent minor!” Mr. Smith’s voice heightened in pitch. “SHIELD wouldn’t stoop to that level!” 

He turned to Luke, dutifully standing behind his father and obviously of the same breed of super villain as him. “Get the bazooka from storage and wait with it behind the front door.” 

Luke nodded and left, and Mr. Smith hissed at Antoine, “If you move and make a run for it, I will fire.” 

Antoine just shouted, “JOHN! LUKE’S GOT A BAZOOKA AT THE FRONT DOOR — _oof_.” He doubled over, holding his gut that had been sucker punched. “Hit a man while he’s already got a gun at his head? That’s cheating.” 

Mr. Smith placed a steel-tipped boot on his throat, effectively silencing the boy. “Do you have a death wish?” he growled, cocking the gun (again, _what did he shoot to need to cock it again_?). “You’ll be dead soon either way, but the less you move and the more you _shut up_ the more likely it will be to last _longer_.” He motioned at Antoine’s gut, which was leaking blood. 

He had been _shot_ , not punched. 

Fuck. 

Antoine winced as he heard gunshots downstairs and a large object crashed down — presumably, the door. Garrett had taken his advice. Luke’s screams came a moment later, along with a few shots of the bazooka that lit the lawn on fire. 

The first strains of ‘Lithium’ eked out of his poor MP3 player lying on the floor before Mr. Smith stepped on his headphones with his other foot and crushed them. The movement left Antoine a great opportunity to kick him in the balls, so he did. As the super villain doubled over, knocked out of breath, Antoine clambered to his feet with the help of the toilet and upper arm strength, and looked out the window. 

He could fit … 

Mr. Smith rolled over to pick up his gun discarded on the floor. 

He would have to fit. 

As Mr. Smith turned and fired at the teenager, Antoine flung himself through the bathroom window, breaking it and falling to the ground. Pain tore into his calf, and then he landed on that leg, quadrupling it until he blacked out amidst the smoke. 

*** 

Antoine awoke very slowly, and his mind presented him with a reason: _medication_. 

He was in a Jeep. Garrett’s voice reverberated through his ear canals along with a woman’s whom Garrett referred to as Hand. 

“We have to wipe him,” Garrett was saying. “We can’t risk knowledge of sleeper cells in suburbia South getting out. It would ruin us.” 

“You have done exemplary on your first leading mission, Agent, but SHIELD has better ways of cleaning up its messes than memory removal. Did you see what he did — took a gut shot then turned the situation around so he could escape? We could use someone like that.” 

“He’s fifteen, Hand. You recruit that young?” 

“If the person is adept enough, sure.” 

“Oh. That’s — _oh_.” 

“Is that a problem, Agent Garett? Would you rather we wipe him and give him a shitty reason for two bullet wounds in different regions of his body and a fractured ankle? We’re the bearers of bad news, not half-assed lies to civilians.” 

The opening strains of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Our Lady of Sorrows’ came over the radio and the volume was turned up. Antoine reflexively pulled a smile at it and opened his eyes. 

A red-haired woman — Hand — and Garrett looked expectantly back at him.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he slurred. “I was _shot_.” 

Garrett turned to Hand. “How did you know that song would wake him?” 

Hand smiled, and gestured to the drugged kid. “You kidding? He’s _punk_ , John. Bound to react to the strains of his soul.” 

Garrett scoffed. Antoine retried his statement, hoping to get an effect, louder. “I was _shot_.” 

“Yes, you were,” Hand turned to him. “How would you like to be part of a government agency?” 


End file.
